


Does it Hurt (When I Deepthroat)?

by ProtonBeam



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boy That Escalated Quickly, Crack Treated Seriously, Deepthroating, Desk Sex, Devoted Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Inspired by Music, Married Reylo, Office Sex, Rey is having a dumb moment, Shameless Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, or did it?, record label
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtonBeam/pseuds/ProtonBeam
Summary: Rey listens to their newest artist's song when a lyric jumps out at her sending her world into a spin. Did she just hear that right? Deepthroathurts? Flashing images of Ben’s contorted face assault her. The way he’d hiss and grit his teeth. Eyes screwed shut and mouth pressed in a firm line. Sometimes biting his lip while he scrunched his face and squirmed.She's been hurting the love of her life all this time. Now she needs to make it up to him.ALTERNATELY: Rey is having a very dumb moment to facilitate the author's need to write a cracky deepthroat fic.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 38
Kudos: 213
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will not be held responsible for this...
> 
> But should you be curious, the song in question: [Jack Harlow - Poppin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9uWPBDHEKE)

She’s driving back to their office.  
  
Windows rolled down and music blaring. Sunglasses balanced on the bridge of her nose as she sings along at full volume, oblivious to anyone who might be staring.  
  
The sun is shining, the weather’s balmy, and Costco was surprisingly empty so she was able to get their studio supplies in record time.  
  
Four cases of bottled water, two cases of Red Bull, snacks galore. A mammoth jug of hand soap and dishwasher tabs to last them a lifetime. Ok fine, they’ll last all of about a month. But the point is, it’s done! The studio is set for another month (probably less with the way Poe guzzles Red Bull) and she can get back behind her desk to scout more talent.  
  
Her fingers drum against the steering wheel as the end notes of the song play out. One of theirs. Snap Wexley, or just Snap! (yes with the exclamation mark) as he likes to be known in the music world. His stuff tops charts consistently. Their first golden goose.  
  
Rey found him. Ben nurtured his career. _Their_ team producing hit after hit to launch him into stardom.  
  
One of their newer guys is up next in her playlist. A new song. One she hasn’t heard before. The song change noted by a lively piano riff and a question.  
  
 _What’s poppin’?  
  
_ Oooh this is _catchy!_ One of Finn’s best mixes to date. It’s simple and has a nice bounce.  
  
 _Brand new whip just hopped in, just hopped in  
  
_ Her hand reaches to turn up the volume, wanting to hear every nuance. Every little soundbyte & preset that went into creating what she’s 100% sure is a masterpiece and most certainly, a hit.  
  
 _I could put a ball in the end zone  
_ _Put a bad bitch in the friendzone, ooh  
  
_ When she’d first found their newest artist on YouTube, it was his tempo that had captured her attention. The way he had natural cadence and rhythm. The way he rapped like the greats. Not depending on skillful production, autotune or clever snipping in Logic, but capturing attention with his impeccable flow.  
  
She’d contacted him immediately, of course, and flew him out to their studio despite Ben’s protestations.   
  
“You’re flying him halfway across the country on a whim?” he’d huffed and run his hand through his luxurious hair. The buttons on his poor shirt straining.   
  
After 2 years of marriage she’d have liked to say that the effect’s worn off. Alas, it hadn’t. Still hasn’t, if she’s being honest. Though now she worries about his health when he gets this worked up.   
  
Her younger, horny brain wanted to stroke that anger because when he’d inevitably blow his gasket he’d be rough, taking her like a man possessed. The _responsible_ side of her wanted to drop to her knees. Help him release that excess tension so he could regain his composure.  
  
They did the latter.  
  
That smoothed out the new artist debacle.  
  
“You’ll love him,” she’d promised while he straightened himself out, a blissed out smile on his face.  
  
She’d been right.  
  
 _Me and my ‘migos got that free smoke  
_ _On the West Coast, yeah, I’m talking ‘bout pre-rolls, pre-roll  
_ _Dark hair bitch and she look like Shego, she dooo_

God he’s good. It never fails to amaze her when she hears him freestyle in the studio before a recording session. But this song is so good, so catchy … she’ll see if Poe can get her the lyrics so she can attempt to memorize them and belt along. Probably make an utter mess of them ‘cause she can’t rap worth shit. But she’ll try regardless. She can see herself adding it to her core playlist.  
  
She’s bopping along, enjoying the tempo. The warm summer air breezing through the car. The free feeling of knowing you’ve got a home, great friends and an amazing husband. The lightness of having all the pieces of your life fitting together perfectly. Like enjoying a vanilla soft serve in the park on a sunny Saturday afternoon without a care in the world.  
  
 _She heard of my deep stroke  
_ _She said, ‘babe, does it hurt when I deepthroat?’ It does_

Wait, what?  
  
Her fingers tap on the car’s screen to rewind the song a touch. She wiggles the USB key that Finn had pre-loaded with their work, just in case. Surely she heard wrong. Did … did he say it does? As in … it hurts?  
  
As in … deepthroat hurts?  
  
She closes the windows and increases the volume a little more to amplify that little aside after the line.

 _She heard of my deep stroke  
_ _She said, ‘babe, does it hurt when I deepthroat?’ It does_

It does.  
  
… It does.  
  
Oh no no no no no!! It hurts?  
  
Flashing images of Ben’s contorted face. The way he’d hiss and grit his teeth. Eyes screwed shut and mouth pressed in a firm line. Sometimes biting his lip while he scrunched his face and squirmed.  
  
No way. She needs to hear it again to confirm. Her fingers tap the screen to rewind the few seconds to the beginning of the verse again. Now fully tuned in with blood pounding in her ears.  
  
 _She heard of my deep stroke  
_ _She said, ‘babe, does it hurt when I deepthroat?’ It does  
  
_ Shit!   
  
She thought he liked it. Isn’t that like the holy grail of sexual experiences?   
  
How could she have been so _blind_. Flashes of his pained face assault her conscience. _Of course_ he was in pain. But her amazing, sweet, considerate, fridge sized husband never said anything. He just grit his teeth and took it because he knew _she_ loved doing it for him.  
  
Oh no.  
  
Oh _no!  
  
_ The song fades into the background as she begins to spiral. She’s been hurting the love of her life all along and he’d been too sweet to stop her. How _could_ she?  
  
How has she never realized? Aside from the physical tells that are now assaulting her in crystal clear definition, there’s also his orgasm. He _never_ comes when he’s buried deep down her throat. Always comes when she’s working just the head or the first few inches.   
  
Her heart is beating erratically. Hoping and praying for a red light so she can pick up her phone and text. Yes, it’s dangerous and against the law ... but this is serious. It’s _life changing_. She’s been hurting her one constant. Her pillar. Her _Ben.  
  
_ He’s so _so_ good to her. So caring.   
  
He rubs her feet when they’re half watching nature docs at night and scrolling on their phones. Makes her protein smoothies in the morning and always keeps watch over her while they’re at the gym lest she be harassed by some juice monkey pretending to offer help with her form. He calls her his sweetheart and always kisses her temple good night, even if they bickered before going to bed. He makes her popcorn when it rains and sets up the lawn chairs just out of its reach in the open garage so they can watch thunderstorms together. He unclogs the hair plug she leaves in the shower without a peep and dutifully sprays their home made pesticide to protect her garden every day.  
  
And what does she do for him? She _hurts_ him. When he’s most vulnerable … she _hurts_ him.  
  
A red light.  
  
She turns down the volume until the car is silent. Grasping for her phone because she needs to resolve this _now_.  
  
 **Rey Solo:** _Babe?  
  
_ **Rey Solo:** _BABE???  
  
_ Green light.  
  
She’s driving faster than usual. Indifferent to the posted speed limits, anxious to get back to their studio. To find him and ask him how much it hurts then beg for forgiveness.  
  
Maybe she’ll call his favourite bakery and pick up those little bitty cinnamon sugar donuts he likes to stuff into his mouth 3 at a time. Or maybe she’ll dust off her apron and make him shakshuka for dinner. Because he loves shakshuka for breakfast and breakfast for dinner is always a good idea. Besides, it’ll go well with his post dinner bowl of cereal.  
  
That’s a good start. Begin with making it up in the kitchen. Then, maybe she’ll put on his favourite nightie. The red lace babydoll with the scalloped eyelash lace cups. He’d gotten her that one and she’s absolutely positive he loves it on her by virtue of calling her his Empress when she wears it. Or maybe she’ll bust out the big guns. Whip open _the drawer_ and let him tie her up. He needs to be in a certain mood for that but …   
  
Another red light.  
  
 **Rey Solo:** _Babe please answer. I have a really important question.  
  
_ No response. Not even those dancing three dots or a read receipt.   
  
Another green light.   
  
Only 10 minutes from the office but her thoughts are spiralling out of control. _I hurt him_ , chanting in her head like a self-deprecating mantra. The world slipping from under her feet as it shifts on its axis. Her fingers tap the dial button over his contact. It rings and rings and rings but there’s no answer.  
  
Maybe she’ll call a distillery and get them a nice weekend getaway to do some scotch tasting. Book a nice hotel or bed & breakfast. He could _always_ use a little time to decompress and he likes scotch.  
  
Better yet! She can talk to Poe or Finn (whoever she finds first) to clear up his schedule for a few days and take him to ... Cabo? She’ll need to go buy a boatload of sunscreen, but it’s a small price to pay for her better half. He’d never looked more peaceful than on their honeymoon in Kauai. Leaned back against his lounger under the palapa. Mai Tai in hand and the biggest, goofiest grin eating up his face as he watched her splash around in the pristine turquoise waters.   
  
Yes! That’s it.  
  
Dinner, his favourite nightie, maybe the cuffs (the ropes take too long), and definitely a three day getaway. She’ll book it first thing when she gets to her office. Pick something with a decently short flight time that’s tropical.  
  
There. That’s what she’ll do. It won’t negate the years of hurt she’s caused him. The countless times she’s made him suffer. But it’s a start and that’s good enough for now.  
  
She should probably research that, too.   
  
Before Ben, she’d had a few boyfriends. Nothing to write home about. If she lost a finger for each relationship she’d been in, for every time she’d had an intimate partner … well, she’d still have practically full use of both hands.  
  
Her first boyfriend was when she’d realized that her gag reflex wasn’t what it should be. Namely there. He’d gasped, they had very awkward virginal sex, and then a week later they broke up.  
  
Her second boyfriend seemed to like it. As did her third?  
  
She tries to conjure up their faces but the attempt falls flat. Every memory in her mind, every past sexual experience has been stamped out and replaced by Ben.  
  
Ben with his ridiculously large body working her over. Ben with his thick, nimble fingers petting his favourite spot to tip her over the edge in a matter of minutes. Ben with his enormous yet dexterous tongue that she could (definitely) write countless odes to. Ben with his massive…  
  
She pulls into the parking spot behind their two story building. The one they used to rent the upstairs of when they finally took the plunge and moved in together after dating for 3 months. The one they’d bought with a little help (and a lot of Ben’s grumbling) from his parents.  
  
It used to be nice, waking up in the first days of their cohabitation, to walk downstairs and be at work. Now they’ve invested in a more appropriate tudor in a nicer part of town. She liked the house because of the backyard - a deep lot with a blank slate she could plant all manners of greenery on and nurture. He liked the house because of the size and location - good for hosting his family when they inevitably showed up uninvited (and for when they had kids, she knows him even if he won’t give voice to the wish).  
  
Unlocking the back door she finds herself in the little hallway of their storage area. She props the door open and makes quick work depositing her shopping onto a table. Her squishy jelly sandals dampen her steps, each accentuated by a little squeak while her skirt swishes around her knees. When she’s finished unloading, she quickly wipes her hands across her middle, adjusting the tank top that’s twisted loose from under the skirt’s waistband, then sends a quick text to Mitaka asking him to put things away.  
  
She _could_ do it herself, but that would mean not talking to Ben. And right now, she needs to set the record straight and apologize profusely. Besides, even though Mitaka is _technically_ Ben’s PA, she has free use of him whenever she wants. That’s the perk of being married to the big boss man and running a small record label together.  
  
With a quick beep over her shoulder to lock the car and a swift kick to the door stop, she walks resolutely through the hall and into the main reception area. From the reception area into the stairwell to the second floor that they’ve converted to offices on one side and a series of sound dampened recording studios on the other.   
  
She’s so caught up in her thoughts she bumps directly into Finn. He’s got his session headphones slung around his neck, two Red Bulls in hand (where did he get those?) and a slice of pizza they must have ordered for lunch.  
  
“Whoa, where you going all distracted, squirt?”  
  
“I hate it when you call me that,” she grumbles, “have you seen Ben?”  
  
“First of all, you’re the one who aggressively squirted mustard all over your husband on your first date. If he _happened_ to share the story, blame him for the nickname. Secondly, yeah … in his office. Just finished a conference call with that real estate company to build satellite studios.”  
  
“Ok thanks.”  
  
“Heeeey,” he stops her before she can maneuver around him, “you alright? You look … worried.”  
  
“Y-yeah, just need to talk to Ben ‘s all.”  
  
His face dips down in worry, blocking her way and eyeing her warily. He’s leaning in in that brotherly way of his which, normally, she cherishes. Makes her feel like she has a big brother who’s looking out for her and is ready to impart wisdom that’ll brighten her day. Except right now … he can’t.  
  
Right now she needs to find Ben and beg forgiveness.  
  
“If it’s about money,” he starts concerned, “wait until the new kid releases his album. We’ll _all_ be moving to Malibu. ‘Sides, Armitage is a wizard with the books.”  
  
She smiles at him, offers him a stilted laugh. “You really know me, don’t you?” she gives him a fake smile, then softly adds, “thank you.”  
  
Finn is her oldest and dearest friend. The first person to offer her a smidge of kindness when she’d first moved to the city. A fellow sound engineering student in college who’d offered to share notes when she came in late to their first class. It wasn’t _her_ fault it was raining. Or that the bus was late.   
  
Their friendship bloomed from there, two lost souls connecting over their love of music and their orphan past. Except Finn had chosen to focus his energy on beat making and production while Rey focused on mastering. She preferred working on the final result, not adjusting chord lengths and pitches while the artist bitched and moaned about the lack of ‘bass’.   
  
That’s how she’d met Ben. He worked for a big studio and had found himself in a pickle. His (then) assistant Poe had recommended Rey on account of dating her best friend. So she’d reluctantly agreed to visit the First Order Studio to take over mastering an album on short notice for a paycheck and a good reference on her resume.  
  
The mastering session turned into a date night of sorts. Complete with take out gyros and cans of PBR. Listening to the songs turned into quiet conversation. A game of 2 truths and a lie segueing into 21 questions segueing into an electric makeout session that defied their tzatziki breath.  
  
They never did finish mastering that night.  
  
The next day he took her on a ‘real date’. They walked through the park, ate snow cones and hot dogs, fed their leftover buns to the ducks and snuggled under a tree talking about their dreams while she continued to apologize for the mustard stain on his jeans every 15 minutes.   
  
He quit his job to start his own studio with her 90 days later. They moved into that apartment 91 days later.  
  
“He’s here by the way,” Finn throws over his shoulder as he walks away, “freestyling in studio 3. You should say hi. He won’t stop asking me to thank you for the opportunity. Maybe he’ll stop if he gets to tell you himself.”  
  
Rey scoffs turning away. This kid. If he had _any_ idea how brilliant he was … she was just lucky to have found him first. Before the behemoths in their industry snapped him up.  
  
Then again, the industry _is_ changing. Smaller labels like theirs are popping up left right and center. The publishing landscape’s changed too. More freedom and selection for the audience through streaming platforms that leaves lone artists in desperate need for strong marketing and those with major label contracts with even less of a cut. Maybe it’s for the best they found him when they did. He’s now got a progressive label behind him with a _very_ creative (aggressive, Rose is very aggressive) marketing team. Free from the chains of major label contracts. Supporting him while he focuses on coming up with clever words and turns of phrases.   
  
Which reminds her…  
  
She throws Finn a quick ‘sure’ over her shoulder before stepping down the hall to the end where Ben’s office is located. His door is wide open and when she peeks in, she finds him leaning against the large loft window looking down at the street below. His massive back looming and swallowing up the space behind his desk, eclipsing the window frame.  
  
“Babe?”  
  
He turns around with a wicked smirk on his face. He must have secured that deal and must be feeling extra smug about it.  
  
“Hey sweethea-” his face drops the minute their eyes connect. He takes 5 extra large strides to stand in front of her. To cradle her face, worry painting his features, “what’s wrong baby?”  
  
Looking up into his concerned eyes, the love he houses there for her and how clearly it shines through, it dawns on her. The weight of it all. How she’s hurt him time and time again. How much he sacrifices for her and she takes selfishly.  
  
He gave up his major label job for her. Gave up wearing designer suits and expensive shoes. Gave up red carpet events and celebrity studded after parties. Gave up his grand penthouse apartment for a shoddy second floor one. Continually gives up his own pleasure for her own perverted preferences.  
  
She feels her lip quiver. Feels hot tears prickling her eyes.  
  
“Ben I … I’m so sorry…”  
  
His lips descend to press softly against hers. A quick succession of chaste kisses that communicate all his love.  
  
“Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart, and we’ll figure it out together.”  
  
He releases her face only to envelope her in his body. Pulling her close and rocking her gently. Placing a kiss on the top of her head.  
  
 _This_ man. _This_ is the man she’s been hurting for years.  
  
She takes a shaky breath in and buries her face in his chest. Repeating _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ as her world implodes.  
  
“It’s alright, shhh.”  
  
He pushes the door closed with one hand then picks her up, carrying her to their old sofa. The one they’d repurposed when they splurged on new furniture for their new house. The old sofa they brought to their studio and found a new home in the corner of his office. Unable to part with it and the history embedded into its fibers. The history of _them_.  
  
“Tell me,” he smooths her hair, adjusting her in his lap, “tell me what’s wrong and I’ll do everything I can to make it better.”  
  
She pouts at him because … he can’t make it better. He’s _made_ it better all this time by swallowing his own needs and letting her inflict a world of pain on him.  
  
“Baby, please,” he kisses her long and deep, releasing her to press their foreheads together, “tell me what’s wrong. Say it.”  
  
She takes a shuddering breath.  
  
“Say it,” he whispers.  
  
“Ben… I w-was listening to that new song and he … he said that,” she gulps nervously, “that deepthroat hurts.”  
  
The last little bit comes out in a rush. She’s mortified. Utterly terrified of his reaction. Because she expects to find disappointment there.   
  
A smile twitches the corners of his lips instead, “which song was that?”  
  
“T-the one … the lyric goes something like ‘does it hurt when I deep throat’ and then he says it does and I just … Ben I’m so sorry, I had no idea I was hurting you. You’re so good to me and I want to make you feel good too and I … I let you down,” her lip begins to quiver again.  
  
There’s a beat of silence. Her eyes are squeezed shut, unable to meet his. Afraid of what she might find there.  
  
“Oh you sweet summer child,” he kisses the corner of her lips chuckling.  
  
“It’s not funny Ben,” she shifts in his lap, tilting her face to crack her eyes open a sliver. Ready to admonish him for downplaying things like he always does. Because that _is_ what he does. Take her pain and absorbs it, acting like her personal sound dampener. He soaks it all up then pretends everything is okay.   
  
That’s when she feels it. The bulge in his pants. Does he …  
  
“A-are you getting off on this? Because it’s _not_ funny Ben. I feel absolutely terrible!”  
  
“No, sweetheart. Quite the contrary,” he shifts her leg a little more to let her straddle directly over his (very prominent) erection, “it’s just a Pavlovian response to the mention of your deepthroat.”  
  
Well, now she’s just confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Rey ... so pretty.
> 
> For the record, Harlow actually explained the verse. He says that he's sensitive and that it hurts when he gets bent to fit down a narrow throat. Yeah ... that interview exists...
> 
> [Watch it here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0RWAed-2Cs) \- the portion relating to that line is at the 3:10 mark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *throws a chapter of smut & runs away*

“Wait … it doesn’t hurt?”  
  
He leans in to kiss her, hands running up her bare legs and under the chiffon pleats of her skirt to grip her ass. Pulling her closer and grinding her against him. Making her head spin in the process because…  
  
“No, sweetheart, I fucking _love_ it. The way you’re so _tight_ ,” he bucks up against her hissing, “the way my dick slides over your tongue. The way I can feel every inch of your hot throat caressing and gripping me … _shiiiit_ I might come just thinking about it.”  
  
“Wait,” she manages to put her hand on his chest, stilling his motions, “just to confirm, you’re saying it _doesn’t_ hurt?”  
  
“ _Fuck_ no! It feels incredible,” one of his hands releases her hip to hold her by the back of her head, cradling it softly. It’s a stark contrast to the way he’s started rocking their bodies again. She recognizes it. The mood he’s in. He _needs_ her.   
  
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out either. He’s rock hard between her legs (the most obvious clue). His eyes are glassy and half lidded, mouth lax and grunting between panting breaths. It’s the Ben Solo ‘I’m horny’ trifecta.   
  
_And it’s Rey Solo’s specialty,_ her brain supplies helpfully.  
  
“I’m the one who should be sorry … _fuuuuck …_ should have _mmpf_ … told you how good it feels. Every single time.”  
  
She pushes on his chest again, stopping him and he whines at the loss of rhythm.  
  
“But … you’re always making a pained face?”  
  
She tries to mimic his face. Squeezing her eyes and scrunching her nose, pressing her lips in a tight line while simultaneously puckering it a little. Furrowing her brows the way he does, with a little upward tilt where they meet. It’s not a perfect mirror, but nothing could ever come close to imitating him anyway.  
  
He chuckles, biting his lip. Considering for a brief moment before continuing.  
  
“Baby-” he kisses her, swatting her hand away from his chest then cupping her cheek. He starts that rocking motion again which she’d so rudely interrupted. Thumb pressing down her lower lip, coaxing it open to slide inside. “-if I look like _that …_ like I’m in pain, it’s because I’m trying not to come. Y-yeah, just like that, swirl that tongue around my thumb. _Oh fuck_ I can’t wait to bury my cock in there.”  
  
Well, that clears up a few things. But then why would…  
  
She starts to push his thumb out, ready to ask another question.  
  
“Not another peep about it, okay baby?” his thumb slides into and out of her mouth, coating it in her saliva to run over her lips before dipping back in again, “and now that you’ve got me worked up, I’m going to give you two options.”  
  
She tilts her head and knits her brows in confusion. _Options?  
  
_ “I can either fuck your tight little pussy right now,” the hand on her hips moves down to dip between her legs, stroking her over her panties and smearing the wet spot that’s begun to form, “then _after_ you’ve come on my cock I’ll let you choke on it until I come down your throat.”  
  
 _Oooh fuck.  
  
_ His fingers push her panties aside to slowly dip between her folds. Finding her pleasantly wet he groans in satisfaction.

It’s not her fault, really. Feeling his arousal always gets her worked up. This is just … her MO. He crooks his fingers up just enough to start petting her clit in that soft way he knows makes her keen.  
  
“ _Or_ ,” he accentuates, placing sloppy wet kisses up her jaw until he’s reached her ear to whisper, “I can show you how much I love it when you deepthroat … _then_ fuck you senseless and fill you up.”  
  
His fingers twirl her now swollen bud in a series of tight circles while his thumb continues its slow stroke in her mouth.   
  
“What’s it gonna be, sweetheart?” he breathes into her ear, “keep in mind those are your _only_ two options.”  
  
 _All of it. All at once. Please.  
  
_ His fingers dip down, one sliding into her which draws a moan out of her and an expletive out of him. He pumps his finger into her a few times, using his thumb to stroke her. Getting her worked up the way he always does.  
  
“Fuck it,” he grits, pulling his soaked finger out of her to yank down her tank top and expose her breast. The wetness of his finger across her bared nipple pebbles it instantly against the cool air. “Free my cock, baby. Go ahead.”  
  
Her shaky, eager hands follow his instruction. Now anxious for a different reason. With one hand she begins to stroke over his pants. With the other, she fiddles with the button and pulls on the zipper.  
  
He’s hot and hard. A little damp spot’s formed on his otherwise pristine boxer briefs. He’s wearing the dark grey ones with the banana print she bought him on a whim a few months ago. It was a three pack with funny little suggestive prints. One was bananas, another elephant heads, the last had little eggplants. She flares the waistband to expose him further, palms him over the fabric awaiting his next instruction.  
  
She loves it when he’s like this. Commanding. When he has an edge to him. It makes her feel cherished. Loved. _Owned_.  
  
He’s latched around her nipple, sucking noisily and flexing his hips in time with her strokes. Perfectly content to have her disposed and needy on his lap.  
  
Groaning loudly against her chest, he releases her nipple to paw at her other breast. Stretching her tank to its limits.   
  
“Don’t tease, sweetheart. I’m really turned on right now.”  
  
It’s a warning that’s delivered hoarsely. Broken up by his lips trailing kisses across her breastbone until he finds her newly freed nipple to latch onto.  
  
Her hand continues palming at his length. Thumb stroking over his head where a bead of moisture had turned the fabric damp. Letting him use her. Letting him build her up brick by brick which makes the inevitable topple that much more delicious.   
  
“ _Do it,_ ” he practically growls with her nipple clamped gently between his teeth. Not willing to forego his oral fixation.  
  
Without further ado, she curls her fingers around the waistband of his boxer briefs and gently hoists them up and over his length, allowing his erection to loll against his lower stomach in its newfound freedom.  
  
It’s been 3 years and she’ll never get sick of it. Never get tired of seeing his anatomy. The uniform thickness of it, the veiny landscape of his flesh, the upward curve of his head or the delectable scallop she likes to explore the edge of with her tongue.   
  
If she’s being truthful, she has a Pavlovian response of her own - his cock.  
  
His lips detach from her nipple and he looks down to where she’s stroking him. The hand on her hip moves to collect the chiffon of her skirt, scrunching it up until he’s exposed her front completely and looping two fingers through the waistband like a bridle. In full control of her hips like an expert equestrian.  
  
His other hand pushes her down by her sternum until she settles for gripping his knees to balance her upper body weight. It trails over each nipple briefly before it dips down to pull her panties aside. He maneuvers the same hand to his cock, giving himself a few languid pumps once he’s got her where he wants her.  
  
“I want to watch myself split that pussy open,” he promises as he lines himself up, “are you ready?”  
  
She nods biting her lip in anticipation. This is one of her favourite things. The crackling of electricity as they teeter on the brink together, ready to spark. The filthy things he says before he fills her to the brim and leaves her no room. No room for air, for thoughts, for anything but him.  
  
He teases her by running his length through her arousal, coating himself in it and giving her little jolts of bliss with each pass over her. This is payback, she realizes somewhere in the recesses of her mind. For taking too long.  
  
Her head slumps back, lost in the moment and sensation. Letting him take the lead and trying to breathe through the coiling anticipation. That is, until she feels him line himself up again. Feels the head of him put delicious pressure _just there_.  
  
“Rey?” his voice sounds broken, “look at me, baby.”  
  
She does. Her head and eyes snap forward to look at her husband. Her dishevelled and utterly ruined husband whose body looks about a hair’s breadth away from imploding with lust. It’s sexy as hell.  
  
“Watch with me, okay? Watch me split you open.”  
  
She nods, dropping her gaze to where the flared head of him is starting to part her folds.   
  
She watches him tease forward only to pull back with a groan. Repeat the action feeding her a sliver more only to retract with another heady groan. Dipping himself into her slowly. Inch by torturous inch only to withdraw and start anew. It’s making her dizzy. He’s torturing her. Torturing himself. Torturing _them_.  
  
Without thinking, she gyrates her hips to egg him on.  
  
“That’s it, Rey,” he rasps, “work that cock.”  
  
She doesn’t need any further prodding. Already worked up beyond belief, she decides to take matters into her own hands.  
  
Lifting her hips slightly she rolls them once before sinking down his length. Sighing in satisfaction.  
  
“ _Fuuuck_.”  
  
She’s not listening to him anymore. Single mindedly lifting her hips and lowering them to extract her own pleasure. Bearing down on him just the way she likes. Using him the way he wants her to. The angle ensures he’s stroking her in just the right place to make her come in record time.  
  
He helps her along, tugging at the waistband of her bunched up skirt and thrusting forward to meet her each time. Wet clicks keep track of their rhythm. His eyes are glued to where he’s rooted in her, no doubt mesmerized by the nifty little magic trick (his words) she performs for him. Making his dick appear … disappear. Over and over.   
  
His other hand has shifted to hold her hip steady. To pull her down more roughly while he guides her movements with her skirt. The thumb of his bridled hand reaches down to start adding even pressure to her clit. Short but precise swipes he knows will get her off.  
  
“I n-need you to come like t-this,” he pants pulling her against him harder, “then I’m gonna … _nngh_ … fuck the shit out of you on my desk.”  
  
 _His desk?  
  
_ “We’ll make a … _oh God_ … make a mess of your papers,” she whines, completely lost in the throes of passion.  
  
“That’s … _mmmh_ … exactly the point,” he manages before his hand slips up her back to pull her forward. Directly onto his chest where he begins to maul her face with hungry kisses. All tongue and teeth. Nipping, biting, licking at her mouth and chin. His hips pushing forward more forcefully and his thumb increasing the pressure of its swipes.  
  
She moans into his mouth. It’s a plea to slow down. He’s building too quickly. It’s coming on too fast. She’s going to explode.   
  
_Holy shit_.  
  
The force of her orgasm hits like a battering ram against an unsuspecting door. Breaking through and splintering into a million tiny fragments. She feels her body flood with endorphins. Feels her fingers twitch against his shoulders. Her thighs spasm. Her inner walls flutter against every thrust.  
  
“That’s it, baby. _Thaaat’s_ it.”  
  
He slows them down to a gentle grind to work her through the last remnants of her orgasm. Her body putty in his hands. Though she doesn’t need an orgasm for that. She’s always putty in his hands. Even when they’re arguing.  
  
Through the haze of her post orgasmic bliss, she faintly recognizes that he’s still hard. That he’s still buried inside while her insides continue to twitch, skin to skin between their merged bodies. That he’s lifted her up and is carrying her somewhere.  
  
She comes to rest softly on a hard surface. Bright light surrounding the shape of him like a white aura. His face comes closer, just inches from her own. Breath fanning across her open mouth as she watches the light behind him fade. Like a shitty movie cut scene. Like … _ohhh_ he’s lowered the blinds.  
  
 _Ooh…  
  
_ “You okay, sweetheart?” he kisses her lips softly. His question sounds far away. Like she’s dreaming or underwater. Her ears still abuzz from how hard she came.  
  
All she can muster in return is a lazy nod. A little hum against his lips as he begins canting forward again. Reminding her that he’s still firmly rooted inside.  
  
 _I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you on my desk._   
  
She feels a flutter of anticipation in her stomach. A traitorous clench of her kegels ready for round two.  
  
Her arms wrap around his neck, pulling herself closer. Bracing herself for the inevitable assault he’s going to unleash.  
  
“You remembered,” he kisses her temple, his tone reverent.  
  
Of course she remembered. She remembers that he likes when she holds on for dear life when he’s in this mood. That he loves it when she clings to him like gum to a shoe (his words again).  
  
“Mmhmm,” she murmurs, “fuck me into another dimension, Solo.”  
  
“ _Shhhit_ , baby,” he pulls his hips back, hissing the entire duration, “I love you so fucking much. You know that?”  
  
She doesn’t get a chance to answer because he surges forward, snapping his hips to jolt the air out of her lungs.  
  
His hands drop onto his desk, caging her body and immobilizing her hips. Setting a punishing pace and rendering her speechless. Fucking her in earnest, leaving her incapable of doing anything but breathe. An act he seeks to remedy by jolting the air out of her lungs with each thrust.  
  
“What was the line,” he grunts in her ear, “hmm? What was the full line?”  
  
 _What line?  
  
_ “The verse, baby. Tell me the full verse,” he accentuates as he pistons his hips.  
  
 _Oh.  
  
_ She does _not_ want to talk about music. She wants him to keep going. Wants him to keep drilling into her. To keep pounding her to ecstasy. So she decidedly ignores his horny rambling in favour of giving him a breathy moan.  
  
And at that, he stops completely.  
  
“Beeeen,” she whines.  
  
“The line, sweetheart, what’s the line?”  
  
“I don’t,” she wiggles her hips, seeking friction and even just the minute gyration lights up her nerve endings, “I don’t know.”  
  
His hands wrap around her waist, immobilizing her. He wants her to focus. He wants her to bend to his will.  
  
“You know what you have to do,” he leans forward, the cage of his body suffocating what’s left of her personal space. Filling it with his own and pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth.  
  
 _Fine.  
  
_ She tries to rewind her day in her mind’s eye. Tries to put herself back in the car to remember the lyrics.   
  
_Something something something hurt something something deepthroat? It does.  
  
_ No. He won’t accept that.   
  
She clenches her kegels around him. A little act of defiance to let him know she’s _not_ happy with his silly request and the fact that they could be doing something _much_ more enjoyable.  
  
Then, quick as lightning, it hits.  
  
“Something … heard of my deep stroke,” she pants, a little squeak escaping her when she feels him twitch, “she said babe does it hurt when I deepthroat?”  
  
“Good,” he kisses a wet smack on her lips, “we’ll get to the latter half of that in a minute but first…”  
  
He ever so slowly pulls out almost completely. Until there’s just the tip of him left. Leaving her empty. “Let me remind you of _my_ deep stroke,” he grunts, pushing in equally slowly.  
  
“Oh God,” her head rolls back. The languorous slide of him accentuates his length, his breadth. Every cell inside her sings under his meticulous caress.  
  
“That’s right, sweetheart,” he murmurs in her ear, setting a new pace. One that lets her feel every inch of him. It’s slow and torturously long. Not the short staccato of their quickies but one that tells her he’s taking his time. Enjoying the feel of her as much as she enjoys the feel of him.  
  
He’s panting in her ear, nipping and licking between filthy moans. Grasping her hips to hold her steady, to feed her every inch. To withdraw and repeat the action.  
  
“Fuck, Rey … you feel so _fucking_ good,” he groans.   
  
If it’s possible, she can feel him growing harder. Can feel him getting hotter as he continues stroking into her slowly. She can feel herself building up to another orgasm with every heavy drag. With every nerve ending he fans at this torturously slow pace.  
  
“How did I get so lucky, huh?” He’s lifting up the hem of his shirt, shimmying his pants and boxer briefs down further, freeing his abdominals and watching himself penetrate her again.   
  
He loves looking. Loves watching them become one.  
  
“Oh _my God_ you’re so tight,” he gives her an awestruck glance. Mouth hanging open, a little spittle pooling in the corner. She wants to suck on it. Wants to drink down his drool like an aphrodisiac.  
  
 _Is it still an aphrodisiac if you’re already fucking?  
  
_ “So damn beautiful. I can’t _wait_ ,” he hisses on a deliciously long stroke that she undulates her hips against, “to fuck your throat.”  
  
He slides into her lazily a few more times before his fist connects with the desk. A frustrated ‘ _fuck_ ’ filling the air.  
  
“Gonna come if we keep this up,” he mutters, pulling himself out with a wet squelch and another litany of expletives.   
  
Before she can formulate a complaint, he’s dropped to his knees. Hand gripping the base of his cock tightly to stave off the orgasm he’s trying to postpone.  
  
“Spread your pussy for me,” he commands.  
  
With quivering fingers, she reaches down, shifting her weight onto one elbow. Two fingers spread her lips open, giving him a prized view of the cunt he’s just ravaged. She must be swollen and red and…  
  
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs. Hand reaching up to pull on her fleshy hood, exposing her clit.   
  
If she wasn’t insanely turned on right now, she might laugh about the fact that they’re both prodding her nether regions. Like they’re studying anatomy instead of taking a quick recess from their intense fucking.  
  
His lips seal around her exposed bud to begin suckling. Using his bottom lip to create wave after wave of bone melting pleasure. Tongue joining the fray to swipe across her, making her hips jolt.  
  
It turns her world upside down. Drowns out everything but _him_. Makes her chant his name and cant her hips forward to meet his eager tongue.  
  
Detaching his lips he gives her a quick glance up, a wink and a “had a hankering for this pussy,” before delving back in with his whole face. That wide tongue of his painting every nook and cranny. Every fold explored as he mouths at her like he’s starved.  
  
The only sounds in his office are the soft clicking of his tongue, his satisfied groans as he gorges, and her quiet moans as she tries to keep it down.  
  
He gently peels her hand away, no longer needing her assistance to keep her open now that he’s firmly nestled between her legs. So she reaches back to try and balance herself.   
  
She _thinks_ she’s settling on a good spot, but instead finds herself leaning on loose paper, slipping back unceremoniously. The little hiccup sets in motion a series of crashes. Sending a few choice stacks of paper, his pen holder, and the little antique desk clock his mother gifted him tumbling to the floor.  
  
“Yes, _just_ like that,” he mumbles against her cunt, “make a mess of my desk baby.”  
  
“Fuck, _Ben!”  
  
_ “Can you come like this? Or…” he doesn’t finish, only suctions back against her core to lap. Flicking his tongue over her again and again and again.  
  
“No, I want…” she starts but is momentarily halted by a delicious swipe right over her clit.  
  
“I want,” she tries again, this time her back bows off the desk when he sucks her into his mouth like he’s sucking through a straw. Hard and fast, each suction a pulse of pure pleasure.  
  
“What do you want, sweetheart?”  
  
Oh that’s rich from the man who’s making sure she can’t speak.  
  
Her hand reaches forward to push him off her. Fingers tangling in his messy locks as her palm puts pressure against his forehead. When his face detaches from her core, he’s glistening below the nose.  
  
“The Supreme Leader,” she pants, finally able to collect her thoughts and string together a (semi-coherent) sentence, “I want the Supreme Leader.”  
  
He laughs. Snorts inelegantly, dimples and all, pressing a kiss onto the inside of her thigh. “Your wish is my command.”  
  
A smug look settles across his face as he stands up. As he bends over her and grinds the length of him against her drenched core. He _may_ look controlled, may even _act_ it, but she knows better. Can see his body vibrate with want. Raging against the tight grip he exercises on his impulse to fuck her senseless.   
  
“Baby wanna to get fucked?”  
  
“By the Supreme Leader, yes,” she bites her lip.  
  
“Then you’ll choke on him later, yes?”  
  
“Yes,” she moans, hips rolling with his grinds, “give it … to me.”  
  
He surges forward, impaling her on his length at once, attacking her mouth with his lips. He licks into her mouth the way he fucks her. Hard. Long strokes and bitten lips. Powerful drags of his tongue to match the powerful jolts of his thrusts. His pubic bone slapping against her to add the perfect amount of pressure, building her up up towards her second orgasm in record time.  
  
She chokes back a loud moan against his lips.  
  
“You gonna come baby?” he murmurs, lips gently caressing over hers as if he’s currently _not_ fucking an impression of her ass into the grain of his desk. Though she is surprised that _that_ hasn’t happened already with the amount of times they’ve debauched the poor piece of furniture.  
  
“Yeah,” she pants back.  
  
“You like this cock? Like when the Supreme Leader _takes_ what’s rightfully his?” He’s practically snarling now.  
  
“Yeah … _fuck Ben_ … just like that. Don’t stop.”  
  
He doesn’t stop. He grits his teeth, forehead hovering a mere inch over hers, damp with sweat as he grunts to accentuate each thrust.  
  
It never ceases to amaze her. How quickly he’s able to bring her to the brink. How eager her body is to please him. How it _responds_ to him.   
  
There’s always this sliver of clarity, a tiny window in her mind’s eye that opens just before it happens. Just before everything whites out. Through it, she gets a peek into the rightness of _them_ before the intensity of it pulses through and swallows her whole.  
  
Before she knows it, her head’s snapped back and she’s convulsing as her second orgasm crescendos. This one sharper than the last. Drawing longer. Or maybe that’s just the way he’s working her over to prolong it.  
  
She may have screamed his name. She’s not sure. But his hand is covering her mouth and his hips have slowed their pace. Probably because she’s gripping him like a vice and it’s harder to work himself into her.  
  
“That’s it,” he coos, “you feel so _fucking_ good when you come around my cock, Rey.”  
  
Her body slumps back, utterly spent as he continues shallowly thrusting to draw out her orgasm. Heart racing and breaths coming out in short pants. Her vision’s blurry and her hearing’s dampened yet again.   
  
“Shhh,” he murmurs, pulling himself out and trailing soft kisses down her body. A featherlight kiss to the swell of each breast. Another on each nipple. A lazy trail down her sternum and clothed abdomen. One right on her abused clit where he laps at her cum. It’s not meant to get her roused again. It’s a careful caress with his tongue and lips. Cleaning her up without the harsh scrape of napkins or tissues.   
  
He presses kisses on her inner thighs. Trailing them lower to the insides of her knees. Lower still to the sides of her calves and ankles.  
  
Finding herself again, she props her upper body up on her elbows, forearms pressed firmly against the wood they’ve so thoroughly debauched.  
  
“Hi,” she smiles dreamily.  
  
“Hi,” he beams back.  
  
They stay there, watching each other for a long moment before her gaze dips down to see his pants are pooled around his ankles and he’s _still_ hard. Jesus he can last.  
  
“You ready to give me some neck?” he grins at her like a buffoon.  
  
“For you?” she cocks a brow, “always.”  
  
For all the control he likes to practice, he’s always been attentive and sweet. Like right now. Patiently waiting for her to regain her composure. To tell him how she wants him. Even if _he’s_ the one who’s going to get pleasured.   
  
She’d like to ask him how _he_ wants it. Because this is for him, afterall. All of this was pre-game commentary and they’ve finally arrived at the title match. It would be a silly thing to ask, though.   
  
After all these years, she knows how he likes it. Knows that his absolute favourite way to get his dick sucked is standing up. Followed by sitting. Followed by laying back in bed, although that particular format sometimes shifts to second place if it’s accompanied by her straddling his face.  
  
So it’s no trouble for her to slip off his desk. Sliding her hips down and landing on wobbly legs only to sink to the floor, kneeling between his. Watching him pump his cock slowly in anticipation. Licking his chops like a starved mutt anticipating dinner.   
  
And, because he’s the most wonderful man in the world, he reaches behind him to grab his suit jacket off the chair, rolling it tightly into a small lump before squatting down to press it under her knees.  
  
His hand cups her face, face tilting to press a soft kiss to her lips. “I love you, you know that?”  
  
“I know,” she smiles coyly, still blissed out from two orgasms and the prospect of tasting him, “now stand up so you can fuck my throat.”  
  
He hums appreciatively, standing back up and pumping himself, “you’re gonna be the end of me, sweetheart.”  
  
“At your age?” she swats his hand away, “that’s a very real possibility.”  
  
Her fist wraps around his length, appreciative of his weight. His girth. The warmth of his skin and the smooth velvet of his cock.  
  
An inelegant snort draws her eyes up from where they’re focused, enamoured with the sight of him. “Brat,” his fingers card through her hair, collecting a handful to clutch at the crown of her head.  
  
She begins sliding her fist up and down. Using her thumb to stroke over the sensitive spot under his head as she presses gentle kisses to the underside of his base. Letting his shaft slide between her parted lips, sliding up and down to taste herself on him.  
  
“Shit baby … _aah_ … that feels so good,” he stutters.  
  
Her thumb strokes over the tip of his head, dragging the little bead of precum with it over and down to smear around the flare. Eyes drifting up to catch his in a promise.  
  
He looks wild, dishevelled. The hand at his side clenched into a fist like it’s the only way to hold onto control. To not snap and shove himself into her mouth.  
  
Without further ado, she slides her lips up the length of him. Holding him gently in her hand until her lips reach the very tip and purse around his head. Tongue lapping over him.   
  
“F-fuuuck, Rey.”  
  
His fist has opened up, that hand now braced against his hip where it’s shaking. Fingers drumming against his skin jerkily. She gives him a small smile before her eyes close and she begins to lower her head.  
  
“Yesssss,” he hisses, “just like that. Oh _fuck_.”  
  
She’s bobbing her head over the first few inches. Taking him back but not all the way to build him up to it slowly. Humming around his cock happily as she tastes the tang of him, the tang of her.   
  
Chancing a glance up, she sees his eyes have closed. His throat bobs on a swallow and his abdominals are clenching with want.  
  
She bobs once, suctioning around his head, lapping over it before sliding down. Feeling the length of him slip across her tongue and into her throat. The way his cock chafes against the tenderness of her throat as it pushes through. The way he caresses her uvula. The way it yields to curve to the shape of her. She feels him tickle her pharynx.  
  
“Oh. My. _God_.” His body bows over her. The hand fisted in her hair grips tightly creating a sweet sting against her scalp. Her lips flush with his pubic bone as she focuses on swallowing.  
  
That last little bit always hurts just a touch. Sure, she doesn’t feel the need to puke when he pushes through but there’s a certain discomfort that comes with him breaching her pharynx. A muscle that’s not used to being touched or stretched.  
  
Yet, whatever the discomfort, his breathy groans are the salve to make her forget. To make her relax her throat muscles further to accommodate the sheer size of him.   
  
She slides him out, relishing in the feel of his head rubbing against the length of her throat until he’s free. Until she can gasp a breath while saliva trickles from her mouth and clings to his cock.  
  
“Again?” she whispers huskily.  
  
“Yes,” he chokes, “fuck, _yes_.”  
  
“You gonna fuck my face, Mr. Solo?”  
  
“Mmhmm,” he nods eagerly.  
  
She takes him in her mouth again, lapping her tongue and working him with her hand. Inch by inch she takes him deeper yet again until he’s there, breaching the back and immobilizing her tongue.  
  
A deep breath through her nose before she pushes down all the way.  
  
“ _Oooooh_ fuck, baby,” he’s biting his lip, spittle shimmering in the corner of his mouth. The hand on his hip releases to grab her hair, joining the other. He’s holding her head down, flexing his hips forward.  
  
“Mmhmm,” she gurgles around him. Asking him to do it. To fuck himself down her throat.  
  
“Christ, you’re so,” the pitch of his voice is high, restrained, “fucking _tight_.”  
  
He punctuates it with a small thrust, like he’s testing her limit. Like he doesn’t already know she has none when it comes to him.  
  
“You wanna know how much…” he grunts, “h-how much I love your deep throat?” He slides halfway out before slamming back in. Using his grip on her skull to nuzzle her lips and nose against the fine dusting of hair at his base. He’s warm and musky. He fills her so good she moans around his length.  
  
“Shiiiiit,” his hand reaches down from her head to wrap around her throat, to feel himself in there as he pulls out a little and thrusts back in, “just like that, oh my God.”  
  
He starts fucking her face in earnest. Using her head of leverage as his hips snap forward over and over. As the air in the room is filled with the sounds of her choked moans and his breathy expletives, his pleasured sighs.  
  
“If I wasn’t,” he grits, “so _fucking_ obsessed,” a rolled thrust, “with your pussy,” a groan, “I’d want to _live_ ,” a hiss, “with my cock,” a satisfied _aah_ , “down your throat.”  
  
His thrusts become sloppy, occasionally punctuated by twitches in her throat, by a trembling thigh. By the way his fingers shake against her scalp like she’s grounding him.  
  
“I’m gonna come,” he grunts, “is that okay baby?”  
  
She nods with his cock buried deep down her throat, another little gurgle to offer her assent.  
  
“Fucking _beautiful_ like this,” he squirms, “want me to come down your throat? Or on your tongue so you can swallow?”  
  
Her only response is to grab two handfuls of his ass cheeks and push herself down deeper. To glance up and meet his dark eyes.   
  
“Unreal,” his hand caresses her cheek, “you … you’re unreal.”  
  
He picks up the rhythm again, the rigid length of him filling her throat to the brim before pulling away to repeat.   
  
“Gonna … gonna make you choke on my cum,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “gonna shoot my load straight into your stomach. Yeah? You like that? _Ff-fuck!”  
  
_ _Big words for the big guy whose thighs are quivering like autumn leaves.  
  
_ As soon as he’s stuttered out his words, she feels the telltale sign of his impending orgasm. The pulsing zing that travels up the length of his shaft. Like a car whizzing down an empty highway.   
  
His thighs start to shake uncontrollably. He mutters a high pitched ‘gonna come’, then pushes his cock all the way down to bury himself to the root.  
  
He howls his release, hot cum spurting down her throat in ropes. She swallows to the best of her ability, an act that has him moaning loudly each time her throat constricts around him. Milking him.  
  
The grip on her hair eases. The rigidity of him begins to soften and still he remains buried down her throat, rocking his hips. Grunting like an incoherent caveman above her.  
  
He slips out of her to fall back into his chair. Body sprawled and dishevelled. His hair an unruly mess and his face flushed. Eyes half-lidded in that way of his when he’s falling asleep in front of the TV.  
  
He glances down at his softened cock, using a hand to palm himself.   
  
“I think you broke my dick,” he smiles that blissed out smile of his.  
  
 _There it is, the pinnacle of her existence.  
  
_ She wipes her lips, clears her throat before delivering hoarsely, “you’re being dramatic.”  
  
Her voice doesn’t sound right. It sounds like she’s in the throes of a cold. Like Bonnie Tyler just less … sexy.  
  
“C’mere,” he pulls her forward and onto his lap, “you okay? I was a little rough there.”  
  
She shakes her head, adjusting to let her skirt fall over his knees. Snuggling into his neck. “You’re perfect. Always are.”  
  
His head leans against hers. Cheek pressed to her forehead as they catch their breath. Chests rising and falling in unison.   
  
This is the _thing_ she’d been missing all her life. Of course, the sex is top notch, but it’s the quiet connection they share afterwards. She’d never been a snuggler. With him? She’s a baby Koala.  
  
“Hey babe?” he asks, lips grazing her brow, “what would you have done if I said it _did_ hurt?”  
  
He’s nuzzling against her forehead, holding onto her tightly the way he always does before they fall asleep.  
  
“Oh,” she furrows her brows trying to remember the details of her spiral, “uh, I was gonna make you shakshuka for dinner and book us a trip to Cabo.”  
  
“Cabo?” His laughter ticklers her forehead, “we can still go.”  
  
“You want to?” She can’t help the hopeful look she gives him when she tilts her head to meet his eyes.  
  
They’d been so consumed with making their label work, building their brand and bringing artists under their umbrella. Consumed with their house and balancing a social life as well as a marriage that they hadn’t gone anywhere save the suburbs to visit family since their honeymoon. It's not that they didn't want to, it's just that they'd never gotten around to discussing it. Spending their nights decompressing from daily stress, time just sort of ... slipped through their fingers.  
  
A tropical getaway would be bliss.  
  
“With you? Of course,” he kisses her nose, hand carding gently through her hair, “but wouldn’t you rather go to Hawaii?”  
  
She shrugs. Frankly, she hadn’t thought much about the destination. Was planning on researching and picking something when she’d gotten all the options laid out. Cabo was just the first one that popped into her head.  
  
“Waikoloa has better beaches. _And_ no undertow so you can splash around in the water like a deranged otter.”  
  
She smacks his chest. “Ass.”  
  
“And you, sweetheart,” he kisses her temple, squeezing her tighter, “are an idiot.”  
  
“Your idiot,” she corrects, unable to contain her laughter.  
  
“All mine.”  
  
They hold each other for what feels like a lifetime. Listening to each other’s heart beats, each other’s breaths. Dozing in the quiet of the afternoon, oblivious to the recording sessions going on at the other end of the floor.  
  
She’s half asleep when the door knob jiggles.   
  
When it swings open to a laughing Finn and their newest artist obliviously clearing the threshold.  
  
“She’s just in here with…” Finn stops short at the sight of them, luckily covered up thanks to her fashion choice this morning, “Jesus Christ it smells like a _brothel_ in here. You couldn’t wait to get home?”  
  
“Ok, Lord Baelish. You ever heard of knocking?”  
  
Together, they burst into a fit of laughter.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen ... I just wanted to write a crackfic because I was in the mood to pump out some smut. So yeah ... there we have it.
> 
> Now back to regularly scheduled programming.


End file.
